All These Things That I've Done
by rockabillygirl
Summary: Small Outsiders fics based off prompts. Tell me if I need to tag a trigger or something, and suggestions are welcomed (Song: The Killers)
1. Chapter 1

Pony and Johnny tried, in vain, to push the burning log off of their bodies, but couldn't manage to do much but burn their already scorched fingers.

"Johnny," Pony gasped, panicking, his voice wet with the blood in his throat, "Johnny, are we going to die?"

"No," Johnny said, grunting in pain.

"Johnny," God, his voice sounded so young. "Johnny, I can't breathe, it's on my stomach, Johnny I'm scared."

"Pony, please don't panic," Johnny was getting close to hysteria. He couldn't flex his toes anymore. "Please please please don't panic."

"HELP!" Pony started screaming suddenly, "Please, help us-!" His cries were cut off by a coughing fit, which trailed off into teary begging of, "Please."

It was getting harder to breathe, but at least they'd gotten all of the kids out, Johnny reckoned. Maybe instead of murderers, they'd be portrayed gallantly in the paper.

Maybe-

The sound of cracking wood resounded in front of them, and sunlight suddenly poured in. The flames vacuumed outside a bit, an effect caused by the sudden cool air rushing in. "Shit- just hold on, you two, I'm coming!"

Ponyboy stopped crying.

"Dal?"

"I'm coming," Dallas roared, running through the flames. He knelt down in front of them and single handedly lifted the log off of their thin bodies. Haphazardly, he grabbed the two younger boys, lifting them up and ignoring their screams of agony, and carried them out of the burning building.


	2. Chapter 2

(TW for child abuse)

The first time I found out about it was when we were nine. He came to Miss Bradberry's class with quite a shiner, his eyes tired, and the rest of him jumpy.

"Stevie?" I asked, touching his cheek gently. It was recess. He didn't have any lunch earlier.

"Don't look at it," he snapped at me, not meeting my eyes. "It doesn't hurt!"

I drew back, hurt. "It looks like it hurts," I mumbled sadly. "Sorry, Stevie."

"It's fine," he griped, guilty now that he made me sad. "'m sorry for yelling atcha."

"You sure it doesn't hurt?"

He looked away from me, then, his cheeks flushed with shame. "It does a little. But not a lot."

That was the last time Steve ever admitted to one of his bruises hurting, but it wasn't the last time one appeared.


	3. Chapter 3

When he's desperately vulnerable and tired of wasting the world's oxygen, he just decides to grab his heater and go for it. He wasn't a damn hero, after all, it's not at all like the papers said. He could save a bunch of kids but not his closest friend- what the fuck kind of a hero was that?

And the rest is a blur to him. He draws the others out of the house after him, to prove to that stupid kid Pony that he'd better shape up, become harder to the world. Do what he couldn't.

But maybe it was just loneliness.

A couple of bullets ring out and all of his brothers are screaming, a sound so horrible he kind of wishes that that old man in the shop had managed to shoot him before he made the call. He goes down, on his knee, dragging and spitting at the stupid fuzz in his dying moments.

But he's not really dragging his body towards them, but the image of his mother that appears after his lungs are starting to fill with what must be blood.

He sees his mother, who wasn't biologically related to him but his mother nonetheless, with her clothes and ridiculous makeup, the look being made even more strange by the large tearstains, making the look run down her face.

"Dallas," she says sternly, just like the day before she died, the day before he went to prison, "I didn't pick you out of that alleyway for this. My boy, my sweet boy... I loved my child, not the crook you became."

It's getting harder to breathe, and he's guessing she notices, because she holds out her hand, her long manicured fingers outstretched, and says, "Come here, sweet boy."

Dallas' eyes grow big, then close, and he does what his mother tells him to.

The last thing he sees is that stupid kid's green eyes, tear filled and horrified.


	4. Chapter 4

(TW for gun violence)

I had never really seen a true display of police brutality in front of me, for all of the fourteen years I'd been alive. Countless cases of harassment, but nothing savage.

Dallas Winston changed that.

Dallas Winston changed a lot of things.

The sounds of bullets entering a human body have never left me.

I'll always wonder why he didn't scream when he hit the ground. He just dragged himself towards the cops, cursing and spitting at them in his last breaths. Some of the bullets ricocheted. One nicked me in the meat of my forearm, and I was so caught up in the pain of losing another member I didn't notice until we got back home.

Still have a scar.

Still have a lot of scars, but that was the only physical one that week left me with.

The case was never published as it should have been. No, instead he got the name of vagrant, delinquent, attempted murderer. People were upset that he even got a funeral, but we all made sure he did. Buried him right next to Johnny.

I wish my last memory of him was of him carrying us out of the fire, and not of his glassy eyes, still wet with grief.

Dallas Winston changed a lot of things.

I wonder why he never changed himself.

But in a way, I guess he did. Because the old Dally, I think, would have loaded the gun.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're sweet on my brother?" Ponyboy asks around the sucker in his mouth. He's been trying to cut out smoking because of track, so he's occasionally grouchy, but nothing too bad.

"I'm not sweet on your fuckin' brother, kid," Steve says.

Johnny and Ponyboy look at each other, before Johnny shrugs and says, "he's sweet on your brother."

"He's sweet on my brother," Pony agrees.

"I'm not-" Steve starts, but Soda pops his head into the room, drawing everyone's eyes to him, and asks, "Stevie, where're my shoes?"

"Ya left one on top of the fridge and the other in the bathroom sink," Steve grouses, "I put 'em by the door."

"You always look after me, Stevie!" Sodapop beams and heads down into the hall, his bare feet slapping the floor.

"Someone has to," Steve grumbles, smiling slightly. He turns to see the two younger boys staring at him. "What?"

Johnny and Ponyboy give him a flat look, and time seems to stop for Steve, before his eyes grow wide, and he puts his head between his hands. "Oh, my god," he says. "I'm sweet on your brother."

"You're sweet on my brother," Ponyboy agrees, amused. He gnaws on the stick of the sucker, bored, as he and Johnny watch Steve have a minor meltdown.

"Sweeter than sugar," Johnny quips, "Sooner or later you'll be buying anniversary gifts for him."

"He likes daffodils," Ponyboy offers, and Steve has the grace to look horrified before whispering, "I _know._"

"And he's always wanted-"

"-to go horseback riding again, just for fun," Steve finishes, mumbling.

"Damn," Johnny whistles, "You're in deep."

Steve groans into his hands for a solid ten minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

Pony hated the stuff. Sunscreen, that is. The gooey texture, the way it made him feel greasy (and not in the way he _intends_ to look greasy), and the smell. Johnny always harassed the gang into putting the stuff on, much to everyone's amusement, and this summer was no different. After he had gotten out of the hospital and finished physical therapy (he would always walk with a limp), Johnny had been thrusting the bottle of sun lotion at everyone who walked out of the damn door.

But Ponyboy was an early riser when he's determined, and he was determined to get out without having goo all over his face.

So he skipped putting the sunscreen on, and spent the entire day without it, much to Johnny's distress.

* * *

He woke up wanting to scream. "Ponyboy?" Soda asked.

"Mmph." His back hurt so badly he couldn't do anything but turn over.

Sodapop sighed, "I'll get Johnny," he said, walking out of the room. He paused in the doorway. "You know he's trying to look out for us, Pone, you'd best behave."

"I know," Pony whimpered.

Soon enough, Johnny was by his side, holding a bottle of something else goopey and a book in the other. "You were out all day without protection, now look at your skin," He tsked worriedly.

"My back is on fire," Pony moaned.

"Well," Johnny quipped, "I know from personal experience that that's not a fun feeling. Come on, take off your shirt."

"You didn't even buy me dinner yet," Pony grumbled, struggling to take off the offending article of clothing, "What kind of a greaser do you think I am, Johnny Cade?"

"A burnt one," Johnny snickered, opening the tube of stuff and motioning for him to lay down again.

"And people say you're the sweet one."

"I am. You're the toasty one, remember?"

"Har, har-JOHNNY!" Pony shrieked as his friend's hand, covered in aloe, smacked onto his back unexpectedly.

"Yeah?"

"That's fuckin' cold, man!"

"Aw, I wasn't that mean, was I?"

"You're too snarky when you're mad."

"You're too stupid when you're burnt. Next time, put on the lotion, or I ain't gonna bring the aloe again."

"Yessir."


	7. Chapter 7

I was dreaming. Been doing that a lot lately. Dreaming.

I was freezing- I was in the burning church but I was so cold. Johnny was screaming himself hoarse, and a large log had fallen onto us.

This wasn't right. _This wasn't how it happened._ Johnny kept screaming- he wouldn't stop screaming. Why was it taking him so long to die?

It was so cold. The fire eating me alive was freezing my bones like nitrogen, making me feel like glass.

He was still screaming, shoving at the log and crying hysterically-

"Ponyboy!"

_What in fresh hell was my brother doing here?_

"Pony!"

The flames turned to water, then Johnny was flailing, grabbing for me and pulling us towards the surface.

I woke up when we reached air; Soda and Darry were grabbing my face and my hands and just touching me reassuringly.

"How are you, baby?" Soda asked me gently.

I shivered. "I'm cold."


	8. Chapter 8

"Dally, where're you from?" Pony asks, downing more soda to hide his nervousness.

"What?" Dally asks, dumbfounded for a moment.  
"Like... where're you from?"

"I spent three years in New York," he says, then, nothing.

"But you weren't born there."

"No, I guess I wasn't." Dallas says.  
"_Dally_," the kid whines, sprawled across the car's hood. "That's not an answer!"

"No, guess it ain't."

"Ugh. You're no fun," the kids says, pouting.

A few minutes later, Dally says, quietly, "I'm Russian. Dunno how I got here. My mom died on the way here, guess we were running."

"Running from what?" Pony asks softly. He knows he's treading on thin ice, but he's curious.

Dallas lights a cigarette and takes a long, long drag. "Guess she and my old man must've gotten into some trouble. I was about five when I came over here, don't remember much."

"Oh," Pony says, disappointed. Dallas snorts in amusement.

"I remember it was cold as hell back there," he says after a long stretch of quiet. He's talkative today, and Pony always listens; good combo. "People would always look after me. Back there, I wasn't some no good kid. We had rules."

"Rules?"

Dal nods. "I still kinda follow them. Stay loyal, stay trustworthy. Basically that. It was kind of a honor among thieves sorta bullshit."

"Dally, this sounds like the mafia," Ponyboy says, unsurprised.

Dallas just sends him a sharp grin. "You're smarter than you look, Vor. It's a good trait to have. Now," he says, getting up from the hood of his car and lightly pushing the younger boy off, "we need to get you home, or Superman and Soda are gonna throw a fit."


End file.
